LXXXI.
Fall’n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung
To choral melodies and tragic lore;
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung,
The song that hail’d Harmodius peals no more.
Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand,
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill,
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor’s hand,
The magic voice of eloquence is still;
Minerva’s veil is rent[47]—her image gone;
Silent the sage’s bower—the warrior’s tomb o’erthrown.